“Ditto for Colleen Donovan. And my Jane Doe skeleton, ME107-10.”
“Any progress on that?”
I shook my head. “I sent the descriptors back through the usual data banks. Got no hits.”
“It always blows my mind. A kid that young, and no one’s looking.”
“Do the ages bother you?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Pomerleau and Catts preyed on girls in their mid-to late teens. These recent victims skew younger. Or look younger, in the case of Donovan.”
“Psychoses can evolve over time.”
Birdie chose that moment to hop onto the desk and roll to his back. I scratched his belly. He began to purr.
“You think we should tell Slidell?” I asked.
Ryan’s eyes gave me his answer.
I did go to Heatherhill Farm on Sunday. My guilt for staying away trumped my guilt for time lost on the investigation.
I found Mama sitting cross-legged on her bed, the Lilliputian laptop lighting her face. Her door was closed, and the TV was blasting.
After delivering the expected chastisement, Mama sighed and admitted she was delighted I’d come. Since the day was cold and overcast, which ruled out the deck, she insisted we stay in her room.
Mama was intense, restless. As we talked, she repeatedly scurried over to press her ear to the door.
Knowing the source of her agitation, I tried to steer our conversation toward lighter topics. Mama, as always, proved unsteerable.
Sadly, or happily, she’d found no new information on the abductions or murders. I told her she could stand down. Made comments suggesting greater progress than was actually occurring.
She demanded a full update. I gave a vague overview of developments on my end.
She asked about Ryan. I outdid myself at vague.
When I broached the subject of chemo, my questions were rebuffed. When I asked about Goose, Mama rolled her eyes and flapped a dismissive hand.
Ryan had stayed in Charlotte and reviewed the files he hadn’t tackled on Saturday. Slidell had hit pawnshops in search of Leal’s ring.
I arrived home around nine. Over Ben & Jerry’s chocolate nougat crunch, Ryan filled me in on his day.
He’d focused on the investigation chronologies, the time-ordered outlines of actions taken by detectives and calls and inquiries received from the public. He looked and sounded discouraged. “With Donovan and Koseluk, there was little to review. Within weeks of each disappearance, nothing was happening and no one was calling. I gave up on those.”
Other bodies hit the morgue. The cops moved on. I didn’t say it.
“With Estrada, the investigation was more thorough. Interviews were conducted in Salisbury and Anson County—registered sex offenders, friends and family, teachers, the campground owners, residents along the highway.”
He could have been talking about Nance or Gower. About the investigation of any murdered child. I didn’t say that, either.
“A few interviews triggered follow-ups. None yielded a serious suspect.”
“Everyone had an alibi?”
Ryan nodded. “There was the usual flurry of phone tips following the discovery of Estrada’s body. A sporting goods store owner was accused, a kid who drove his Harley too loud and too fast, a farmer who shot his collie.”
“Bike hater, dog lover.”
“You’ve got it. The calls thinned, stopped within a month.”
“There was the scandal, then the lead detective retired. Hull ultimately inherited the file,” I said.
“The final call came from a reporter at the Salisbury Post. She phoned six months after Estrada disappeared.”
“And that was it.”
Ryan set down his bowl and spoon. Patted his chest. Remembered where he was and dropped his hands.